Violent Delights
by IndiaInk147
Summary: Harriett Watson wants to go to ballet class (to pick up chicks, of course). Her brother is bribed into taking her. What happens when he meets the tall, dark, handsome sociopath that teaches her class? Balletlock/Rugby!John


**I hadn't even heard of balletlock and rugby!John until a little while ago, and then twitter corrupted me. Hope you like it! **

**Dedicated to Aisling :p**

"Remind me why you're doing this again?" John asked, lounging on his sister's bed with an amused smirk on his lips and a bribe in his hand - a replica England rugby ball, complete with a red rose printed on the rough, grainy plastic, to be specific.

"Firstly, you smug bastard," Harry glanced at him in the mirror, adjusting the strap of her black leotard and scrunching up her nose at the way it clung to her stomach, "because I have to do something 'girly' to make sure our father, who I'm convinced is actually from like the Middle Ages, that I am not one of those 'Lesbian types',"

John tossed the rugby ball up in the air, narrowly missing the light fixture. "And secondly?"

"And secondly," She scraped her still-wet hair up to the crown of her head and twisted it into a messy bun around her thumb, turning her head to the side to see how it looked. She gave her reflection a mock-sultry pout. "to pick up girls,"

John laughed loudly, "What time does this thing start, then?"

"ten,"

"It's fucking half eight, Harry," John squinted at his watch, "Why am I awake? Why are you already dressed?"

"I'm not going in this, you complete and utter skid mark," Harry turned on him and popped her hip, looking down in distaste at the pale pink tights and black swimming-costume-style leotard. "Like I would be seen dead like this in public. Besides, all the girls get dressed there. The communal dressing room is like, the whole appeal," She lifted her eyebrow suggestively, like a horny old man in a silent film, and gave her hips a little thrust.

"Pervert," John grinned.

"How very dare you!?" Harry placed a hand on her chest, trying to look offended, "Now, brother dear, in precisely 5 seconds I will be naked. I suggest you vacate the premises, or we'll have to crown _you _biggest pervert in this household, and that's some _stiff _competition,"

John nearly felled himself like a tree in his haste to escape, feet tangling in a lacy bra that he was 96% sure did _not _belong to his sister. She was getting _so _much more action than him and he was captain of the Rugby team, for christ sakes. How many lesbians could their school possibly contain? He shook his head, his insecure internal ramblings drowned out by the roar of Harry's hair dryer.

It was just an ego thing, in truth. John had had his fair share of girlfriends, pretty ones, popular ones. Ones that had let his hands up their shirts and his tongue in their mouths. And no, he wasn't some seventeen year old virgin. He'd been on a few opposite-sex sleepovers in his time. They were all very nice and sweet and he'd enjoyed them, and he had been attracted to them. At least, he thought he had been. It was all a bit confusing. He wasn't keen enough and they were to sweet-smelling and soft and just...not right. So, he concluded, it must be ego - wanting them to want him, to find him attractive, even though he felt nothing but a bland indifference to their pretty faces and long hair.

At least in a sexual sense, his best friend and science partner was one of those pretty, long-haired girls, Molly Hooper. The same Molly Hooper that was sitting at his breakfast table, sweet-talking his mother, when he jogged down the stairs that morning - the strains of Harry singing 'I kissed a girl' chasing him, weaving in and out of the hair dryer groan.

"...So, hopefully we'll both be at St Barts next year," Molly smiled cheerfully, taking a sip of her tea.

"Such a smart girl!" Mrs Watson smiled broadly, patting his friend's hand affectionately, "Don't you think so, John?"

"Only the smartest," John replied, patting Molly on the head as he sauntered over to the other side of the kitchen, pouring himself a generous bowl of cocoa pops.

"John Watson, do you really need that much cereal?"

"It's nearly rugby season, Margaret," His father walked into the kitchen, his bulky frame making John feel claustrophobic, a solid wall of construction muscle and working class principles. "John's got to bulk up," The bigger man clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, shunting him so hard that his cereal nearly burst it's ceramic banks. "Molly, love!" He grinned warmly, as if he hadn't heard his wife blabbering on to her about university options through the paper thin walls, "It's so lovely to see you,"

"She was here yesterday, dad," John rolled his eyes at Molly over his psychotic parents' shoulders, she pressed her lips into a thin line to avoid grinning.

Mr Watson ignored his son, opting to put him in a headlock instead. "I wonder when Johnnie boy here is going to finally pluck up the courage to ask you out, you really are perfect for each other, both little science boffins, off to become doctors,"

Molly turned a spectacular shade of puce and choked, "Mortician, actually,". John's embarrassment was smothered in an ocean of sweaty polo shirt as he struggled to free himself from his father's choke-hold.

"Well, thank you for that absolute train crash of a breakfast," John sighed when he was finally loose, throwing his bowl into the sink, "Come on Molly, let's go to Speedy's. You look like you could use a full English, or perhaps a lobotomy,"

He shot his parent's one last evil glare before spinning his mortified best friend out of the room.

There was a moment of still silence in the Watson's kitchen before:

"HARRY YOU COMPLETE FUCKFACE, COME ON, WE'RE GOING TO SPEEDY'S FOR BREAKFAST!" followed by several angry thumps on a door, and then:

"CALM YOUR SHIT JOHN I'M READY, CHRIST!" heavy footsteps thudding on the stairs and the front door slamming.

"What did I say wrong?" Mr Watson asked.

Slowly, Margaret Watson dropped her head into her hands.

* * *

There it was. Better than heroine. Well, not quite. But still good. The moment where Sherlock stretched his muscles to the point where he felt they would break, feeling that delicious frisson of pain as they seemed to reach their absolute limit. And then, he pushed them further.

That point where the pirouette he was doing took on a life of it's own and he began to spin seemingly out of control, but the foot socketed exactly where he wanted it, his eyes trained on the space above the clock in the mirror, the muscles in his legs and abdomen taut and tense with power, they all belied this illusion. His secret control.

The moment where he flung himself upwards, careening into the air, higher, faster than last time. The rush of air against his skin, the heavy exhale as his diaphragm snapped back into place, the grace of his blurred figure in the mirror.

He loved it, loved landing exhausted and sweaty in the final strains of whatever music he had put on. He loved pushing himself so far that his mind switched off and he could just feel. He wondered, vaguely, if this was how normal people felt all the time. He felt sharp jabs of disgust and envy, somewhere under his ribs.

Grabbing a towel and a long drink of water, Sherlock noticed the time. Ten to ten. Shit. He hadn't even noticed his dance instructor come in, setting up the barres for the pitifully juvenile beginners class she was going to teach. And that he had, *somehow*, been roped in to helping with.

"Sherlock, put the beginner's class CD in the player, won't you?" Mrs Hudson asked with a smile, shoving chairs against the far wall for the clingy mothers who wanted to stay and watch, "And make sure you cool down and stretch before they arrive. You're doing so very well, darling, wouldn't want an injury, now would we?"

Sherlock scowled at her but snapped the CD player open anyway, switching the CD. He then strode over to the barre and placed his heel against the top ledge and leaning forward until his stomach was flush against the hard muscle of his thigh.

"Good boy," Mrs Hudson smiled, opening the door. Sherlock closed his eyes tight against the thrum of adolescent female voices as Mrs Hudson led the girls into the dressing room.

"Bloody hell," He heard a deep, masculine voice breathe. Sherlock curled up quickly from his stretch and turned, finding the source of the voice.

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock asked, slightly breathless, staring into a pair of warm blue eyes that had jerked upwards quickly when he turned around. The boy was stocky, sandy-haired and smirking in a bemused way. He wore a sports shirt of some kind and smelled faintly of bacon grease and overcooked eggs. He had a smudge of ketchup on his left cheek and Sherlock thought he was possibly the most perfect human he had ever laid eyes on.

"Um, nothing," The shorter boy replied, cheeks dotting with pale-pink blush, the tops of his ears turning fuchsia, "I'm John, John Watson,"

"Sherlock Holmes," The dancer replied, shaking his hand as he slowly lowered his leg from the bar. John cleared his throat in a slightly strangled way.

"Nice to meet you," He mumbled, turning abruptly and stalking over to the line of chairs, dragging a confused girl along behind him.

The back of his shirt said 'WATSON' '6' 'BAKER STREET UNDER 18s RUGBY CLUB'.

It wasn't the pirouette or the jumps or the stretches or the spectacular feats of contortion his body had performed whilst dancing this last hour that made Sherlock Holmes's knees finally go weak.

It was the sudden, clear image of John Watson in rugby shorts.


End file.
